The Samurai Inheritance (8 page)

Sing
, the voice insisted,
and I will sing with you
.

In the sultry depths of the bush Kristian closed his eyes and the rhythm of the ceremonial drums filled his head, the click of wood on wood sharp and rapid. He could feel the flames all around him, could see their flicker as if through the eye slits of a ceremonial mask. The drone of the fire dance song filled his throat and his grandfather’s strong voice echoed his, the sound spiralling around the jungle grove where it hung like a protective fence against the outside world. As he sang, Kristian Anugu’s fingers worked at the straps of the
yelopela
king’s treasure and removed a thin sheet from within. On it were strange scratchings that looked like a five-toed bird had danced across a sandbank. Kristian knew this was how the outsiders communicated with their gods.

Now you understand
, his grandfather whispered.
But there is another task you must fulfil before I am freed
.

The drone died in Kristian’s chest and he blinked as if he were waking to a new day. Birds twittered in the bushes around him and their voices told him he was alone. An intense sense of release made him want to leap in the air in imitation of the fire dance, but it was immediately overwhelmed by the responsibility he had felt when he replaced the god words in their leather
kes
. He ran a hand over the rough surface and nodded to himself. Yes, he understood everything.

IX

Jamie was staring out of the hotel window over the oily waters of the Spree when his cell phone chirped. The vibrate setting made it dance across the bedside table and he had to grab it before it fell. He studied the small screen. The incoming number wasn’t one the phone recognized.

‘Yes,’ he said tentatively.

‘Mr Saintclair?’ The female voice surprised him and his heart gave an involuntary flutter when he realized the identity of the caller.

‘Dr Ross,’ he managed to keep his tone neutral, ‘I didn’t expect to hear from you again.’

‘And I didn’t expect to be calling
you
,’ she laughed, but it sounded a little forced to Jamie’s ears. ‘It seemed very unlikely that I could help. But your puzzle intrigued me and I did a little more digging. I think I may have something.’

‘Yes?’ He doubted the laconic monosyllable was the reaction she expected, but the prospect of meeting Magda Ross again caused mixed emotions. He wasn’t sure how he should react and her next suggestion only compounded his confusion.

‘I thought perhaps it might even be worth you buying me lunch.’

Jamie blinked. ‘Did you have anywhere in mind?’

‘Yes, but I hope you are not a vegetarian.’

The Grill Royal turned out to be not far from the hotel, on a riverside terrace just off Friedrichstrasse, by the Weidendamm Bridge. It had been across the Weidendamm that Martin Bormann, Hitler’s right-hand man, made his fateful and ultimately fatal bid to escape Berlin. Jamie couldn’t look at the bridge without seeing the single Tiger tank roaring forward into an ambush of Soviet anti-tank guns, followed by thousands of terrified refugees and soldiers. Most of the escapees had been mown down by the pitiless soldiers of the Red Army.

As he walked into the understated foyer he reflected that a Tiger tank might come in handy to protect him during the coming meeting. Not so much from Magda Ross, but from himself. In spite of being, he considered, a perfectly intelligent specimen of the male of the species, women – Abbie Trelawney apart – had somehow managed to remain a constant mystery to him. He wasn’t altogether sure why. He hoped that would change with Fiona, but there were times when he felt hopelessly out of his depth. What was worse, even on short acquaintance Magda Ross had the same effect. Just being in the same room with her had been a drug on the senses.

He’d done a little research on the venue after he’d agreed to the meeting. His first thought was that Dr Ross didn’t get out much, because she was certainly making the most of the opportunity. The Grill was part art house, part restaurant, and part place to be seen if you were a certain type of Berliner: the type with more money than you knew what to do with. Jamie had plenty of experience of upmarket restaurants in London and elsewhere, but the £150 steak was a new personal high – or low, depending on your point of view. If Magda had the same taste in wine she did food, Keith Devlin’s retainer was in for an interesting afternoon. He only hoped it was worth it.

Undeterred, he marched briskly into the restaurant thinking virtuous thoughts that were immediately banished when he was confronted by the table she occupied. Magda Ross sat with her back against the wall directly below a larger-than-life picture of a pretty girl with her left nipple hanging provocatively from her top. Jamie was far from inexperienced with women, but the combination caused his steps to falter. His smile froze and even though he kept his eyes firmly on the woman at the table his expression must have told its own story. Magda turned and craned her neck to look at the picture on the wall behind before facing him with a wry grin.

‘Don’t get any ideas, Mr Saintclair,’ she warned. ‘This is none of my doing. You can blame it on the drooling waiter across there. He claims this is the last seat in the house, but I have my doubts about his motives.’

Taking his seat with as much decorum as he could muster, Jamie looked over his shoulder to where a heavy-set young man in a white shirt did indeed only have eyes for table number nineteen. That would have been understandable even without the attraction of the mammarian study on the wall. Magda Ross looked as if she’d just stepped off a catwalk. She wore a suit of shimmering raw silk that exactly matched her hair, and the opaque ivory of her complexion and scarlet lips provided a startling contrast to the dark material. The effect was striking. No, it was more than striking. She was the most beautiful woman in the restaurant by a long way, and her expression said she knew it.

He realized he was staring and the red lips twitched into a smile. ‘If you find the picture a distraction, I can always ask to move table again,’ she suggested. ‘If they can’t come up with something perhaps we could go somewhere a little less formal?’

‘Not at all.’ Jamie returned her smile. ‘It’s not a part of the anatomy I’m unfamiliar with. In any case, my table companion eclipses anything that adorns the walls of this fine establishment.’

He’d intended to sound like a man of the world, but he found himself the focus of deep brown eyes and knew he was in trouble. ‘Are you flirting with me, Mr Saintclair?’

‘We hardly know each other, Dr Ross.’ He struggled to hold her gaze and his nerve. ‘All I did was state a simple truth. And please call me Jamie.’

‘Is there a significant other in your life, Jamie?’

The enquiry was so unexpected Jamie wasn’t sure he’d heard right. ‘That’s a very direct question.’

‘You’ll find that I’m a very direct lady.’

It was a relief when the waiter interrupted to take their drinks order.

‘
Eiswasser, bitte
,’ Magda said.

‘Oh, you can’t come to a steak restaurant and drink water.’ Jamie smiled, struggling to regain the advantage. He turned to the young man. ‘Do you have a bottle of Nuits-St-Georges premier cru?’

‘Of course, sir, the 2005 or the 2007?’

‘Which was the best year?’

‘I’ll check with the sommelier, sir.’ He placed two menus on the table in front of them and moved away.

‘I get the feeling you’re trying to impress me.’ Magda’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. ‘But you haven’t answered my question.’

‘You’ve lured me to this wonderful restaurant,’ Jamie pointed out. ‘It would be very mean of me if I couldn’t repay you with a glass of rather special wine. Besides, my client is paying. To answer your question: yes, there is a significant other in my life, and we’re very happy together.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad we got that out of the way. Now we can both relax.’

‘Why did you ask?’

‘Because you’re an interesting and quite attractive man, and in other circumstances we might have spent a bit of time together while you’re in Berlin. But I have a policy of not encroaching on other people’s lives. In any case,’ she smiled, ‘I appreciate your compliment. She scrubs up well, as my old dad used to say.’

‘And I appreciate yours.’ Jamie laughed, glad to be back on safer ground. ‘I’ve occasionally been called interesting, but seldom attractive. Scrubs up well? My grandfather used to say that about my mum. She hated it. Where did your dad come from?’

She hesitated, as if she was unsure where to start and how much to tell. ‘My dad’s originally from Scotland, but we travelled a lot. He was a Royal Navy helicopter pilot based in Somerset, which was where I was born. Later on he became a military attaché. He was posted to Athens, Prague and a few other places and he insisted I attend local schools so I could get an ear for the languages. I never took to Czech, but some of them stuck …’

‘German?’

Magda shook her head. ‘My mother is German and we spent almost every summer holiday with
Oma
just outside Hamburg – hence the accent. I was pretty much fluent by the time I was twelve. Dad’s retired now and they have a nice little place near the coast in Somerset.’

She paused as the waiter returned, along with a second man carrying a bottle of wine who bowed and introduced himself as the sommelier. ‘I am afraid we didn’t have the 2005, sir, may I recommend the 2003 as an alternative.’

‘That will be excellent, thank you.’ The waiter took their order while the sommelier opened the bottle with almost religious reverence. Jamie waited until he’d poured two glasses. ‘You were saying?’

‘Basically, I grew up a nomad.’ She sipped her wine and nodded appreciatively. ‘Very nice. I suppose the most interesting thing about me is that I was once held hostage in what the British Special Air Service call the Killing House at their base in Hereford.’ She saw his look of surprise. ‘Impressed, huh?’

‘Very,’ he admitted. ‘Not many people get the privilege. If sitting in a room with live bullets flying around can be called a privilege.’

‘It certainly gets the adrenalin flowing,’ she grinned. ‘I was about seventeen and dad was being sent to Yemen, so he had to go on a hostage recovery course. He took me along for the ride. A very handsome sergeant showed me a neat trick. “Just hold your hand like this, love”,’ she produced a very passable Geordie accent and held up her fist with the second knuckle protruding, ‘“and punch him as hard as you’re able on his Adam’s apple. He’ll die spitting blood in five minutes.” He said the trick is to punch through something not at it. So be very careful, Mr Saintclair. You are dining with a killing machine.’

‘Then I’m in safe hands.’ He raised his glass in a mock toast, warming to Magda Ross even more. ‘How did you end up doing what you do?’

‘When it came to choosing a university degree I closed my eyes and stuck a pin in a list and ended up an anthropologist. What about you?’

He shrugged. ‘Not half as interesting, I’m afraid. What you see is a product of my mother’s ambition. No, it’s true,’ he countered the brief look of disbelief, ‘she even changed our name from Sinclair to Saintclair because she thought it would help me get on at university.’

‘And did it?’

‘The other grammar school students laughed and the posh ones sneered. My mother wanted me to do languages, but I was interested in the arts; in the end I did both.’

‘What about your dad?’

‘I never had one.’

He was glad the food came before she had a chance to ask him to elaborate. It was so perfect that neither had much to say beyond expressions of pleasure for the next forty minutes. Afterwards the waiter approached to clear the table and ask if they wanted to order a dessert. Jamie looked to Magda and she shook her head, but said she’d have a coffee. ‘Make that two.’

He smiled. ‘The company’s been so fascinating I’d almost forgotten why we’re here.’

Magda raised her glass with the last of the wine. ‘To the Bougainville head.’

‘The Bougainville head.’ He mirrored her toast. ‘You said you might be able to help me?’

Her expression turned thoughtful. ‘When you left I thought that was the last we’d ever see of each other. Then again, the disappearance of the shrunken head from our collection is a puzzle and I like puzzles. You talked about a client?’

Jamie nodded. ‘I should have been more honest with you,’ he apologized. ‘My reasons for helping return the head to Bougainville are not entirely altruistic. The tribal chief who wants his ancestor back is also in possession of certain documents that are important to my client. It means the head has a commercial value to him, and therefore to me. If you can help and we’re successful, it would mean a donation – a substantial one, I suspect – to the museum. And there would also be a more personal award.’

‘I’m not interested in your money, Jamie,’ she laughed. ‘But I am interested in what happened to the head. Remember that three-month window we talked about?’

‘Of course, but we’ve no idea what happened in it.’

‘What if we could find out?’ She had his attention now. ‘Last night I talked to a few people who have a better understanding of what was happening in Berlin at that time. One of them is in his nineties but still does some research work for us.’

‘So he would have been around in the Thirties?’

‘Exactly,’ she confirmed. ‘And he remembered that in the years before the war it wasn’t uncommon for senior Nazis to use the museum service as what he called a “gift shop”. The disgrace of it still annoyed him.’

‘Gift shop?’

‘Party officials would take visiting dignitaries on a tour of a museum and if they showed an interest in something it would be handed over as a gift at the end of the tour. Not the really good stuff, but things with a certain novelty value.’

‘And he thinks that’s what might have happened to the head.’

‘He believes it’s possible, yes.’

Jamie sipped his coffee and turned the new information over in his mind. ‘I suppose the next question is who the dignitaries were?’

She nodded. ‘I think we’re probably talking about members of foreign delegations. People who provided the regime with greater legitimacy in world terms. They wouldn’t be minor government officials, because by nineteen thirty-six the Nazis had Germany completely sewn up and didn’t need to impress anyone.’